Gary’s recovery never followed a straight line.

The tooth was fixed in the end, but the journey there left dents — social, emotional, and occasionally physical. There were missed appointments that had to be awkwardly rescheduled, explanations given more than once, and moments in public that lingered longer in memory than the pain itself ever had. People remembered the chaos even after the swelling disappeared.

Gary remembered it too.

What surprised him was how little he wanted to laugh it off now. Earlier, he would have turned the whole thing into a story, sharpened the edges until it became funny, and hidden behind the punchline. This time, he let it stay uncomfortable. The embarrassment wasn’t dramatic, but it was persistent — the quiet knowledge that some of this had been avoidable.

The tooth healed. Not perfectly, not invisibly, but well enough. He could eat without fear. Sleep without interruption. Smile without calculating angles. The physical problem was no longer in control.

The emotional consequences lingered longer.

Trust didn’t reset automatically. Some people stayed cautious around him, unsure whether the calmer version would last. Others simply moved on. Gary didn’t chase explanations. He understood that reliability took time to prove, and apologies didn’t erase patterns.

He adjusted.

He became more deliberate. Less reactive. He stopped framing recklessness as personality and started recognising it as avoidance. That realisation hurt more than the procedures ever had.

Standing outside the clinic after the final appointment, Gary felt something close to relief. Not pride. Not victory. Just the absence of a looming problem. He hadn’t handled everything well, but he’d handled it honestly by the end.

This ending wasn’t clean.

It was earned through repetition, discomfort, and learning the same lesson more than once. The chaos hadn’t been glamorous. It hadn’t been charming. It had simply been real.

Gary walked away knowing he’d survived without pretending the damage was character development. He carried the memory of it with him — not as shame, but as reference.

He hadn’t won neatly.

But he’d grown.

And that, he realised, counted for more than a perfect story ever could.

THE END (Bittersweet Win)